Parting Ways
by Viper Jock
Summary: Set during Snake and The Boss' last day together before they part company. The Boss has a few confessions to make. Bit of a side story to my larger fic Life's End (which I'll be coming back to very shortly) but also stands on its own. Contains some violence and sexual themes, because why the hell not, right? Enjoy!


**Parting Ways**

_Fort Bragg, North Carolina, June 12th 1959_

Jack circled his opponent with slow, deliberate steps, trying to control his breathing as he'd been trained to. Breathing was the key to movement, which in turn was key to controlling the fight.

It was hot in the training hall. Bright sunlight filtered in through the upper windows, which remained resolutely closed despite the stifling air within. Battles were never conducted in comfortable conditions, so neither was training. That was what she'd said, and he wasn't inclined to argue.

They had been at this for the past hour, and he was starting to feel the pace, rivulets of sweat running down his back. Still, there was no thought of stopping. It wasn't over until she said so - that was another lesson he'd long since learned.

Nearby, The Boss matched his position with graceful ease, fingers tensing and relaxing in preparation for the next bout of combat that was soon to erupt. Only a light sheen of sweat coated her skin, and she gave no outward sign of fatigue. Despite being in her late thirties, her body was still lean and muscular, and more agile than many soldiers a decade younger. Her thick blonde hair was tied back with a single band at the nape of her neck, while her steely blue eyes were locked on him, waiting for an opening.

The Boss wasn't by nature an offensive fighter. She preferred to let her opponent make the first move, blocking and dodging their attacks until they grew frustrated and weary. But when she did decide to retaliate, it was as lethal as it was explosive.

"Again," she said, looking uncharacteristically on edge. She'd been agitated and unhappy all day, and he suspected she'd chosen to spar like this to relieve some of the tension.

Once upon a time he had questioned the value of so much hand to hand combat training. In his experience, battles were conducted at long range, where accuracy and firepower were the deciding factors. Fists, no matter how well employed, were just no match for a thousand rounds per minute.

The first and only time he had voiced such a doubt, The Boss had invited him to draw out his pistol and shoot her. Within three seconds, she had disarmed him and turned the weapon on its owner. In her own words, guns could jam or run out of ammunition, and even blades could shatter or foul. The only weapon a soldier could truly depend on was their own body.

Jack lunged at her, feinting left before sidestepping right. He swung with a punch that was both hard and fast - she had taught him never to hold back in training. His fist missed her by mere inches, but it was enough for her to move forward, sweep her leg behind his and slam him into the ground. The hard wood floor was lined with thin crash mats to absorb some of the impact, but it was still a painful experience.

"Your movements are too easy to anticipate," the older woman said as she circled him, muscles bunching and releasing with each step. "Stop relying on old tactics. I trained you better than this. Think! Adapt! Do it again."

Jack jumped to his feet. Again he came at her, ducking below her guard, lunging left and sweeping his fist upward in a vicious uppercut. The Boss dodged it, but only just. As she backed off a pace, he launched a roundhouse kick that the older woman blocked.

There was something mesmerizing about the way she moved and fought. She was so controlled and graceful, almost like a dancer, but he knew she was lethal as well. Years of training and experience had endowed her with an uncanny ability to predict her opponent's moves. She was relentless and unstoppable, and beautiful.

Never in his life had he met a woman like her, and he knew he never would again.

"Why are you holding back?" she demanded, visibly angry at his lack of commitment. "We're here to fight, so fight!"

Jack frowned, perplexed by her attitude. Her training sessions were always strenuous, but there was still a line they didn't cross. They weren't out to kill each other.

"We're only sparring, Boss," he said, trying to reason with her. "What's gotten into you?"

This time she didn't wait for him to make a move. She came at him almost before he could react. He was able to block the first couple of blows, but a hard punch to the chest knocked the wind out of him, and another to the side of his head left stars dancing across his eyes. Sensing victory, she grabbed his arm, pushed his chest with her free hand and threw him to the ground.

"I could have killed you a dozen times over, Jack," she said, pacing back and forth like a caged lion before him. "You're lazy, and sloppy, and complacent. An enemy is an enemy, no matter who they once were to you! Don't you understand that? I'm your enemy right now, and I want to kill you. What are you going to do about it?"

Anger flaring up inside him, he scrambled to his feet and moved in on her, his fists clenched, muscles tight and coiled, poised to strike. If she wanted a fight, he'd give her one.

Their battle was short but vicious, both throwing and landing blows that hit with bruising force. But Jack was tiring, his larger size and weight now working against him in the hot confines of the training hall. Managing to grab The Boss' right arm, he twisted it behind her back, convinced he had now gained the upper hand. She would have no choice but to submit now if she didn't want to leave with a broken shoulder.

For a moment, the two of them remained together like that, their bodies pressed close to each other. The Boss turned her head a little to look at him, and he caught a glimmer of something in her eye. A sensual, almost primal look of attraction that completely caught him off guard.

His lapse was brief, but it was enough. Lashing out with her other arm, she drove an elbow into his face, stunning him, before pivoting around and throwing him to the ground once more.

She was on him in an instant. When Jack opened his eyes, he found the older woman straddling him, her forearm pressed against his throat and her face just inches from his. She was breathing a little harder from the exertion, and a loose tendril of hair had escaped the tie to fall in front of her face.

"Better," she said, though she made no move to stand up.

He could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, smell the faint tang of sweat. And in that moment, he became acutely conscious of her body pressed against his; the strength of the muscles in her legs, the soft mounds of her breasts touching his chest, the pounding of her heart. The look he had seen in her eyes was back again. Desire, long buried and suppressed, now freed and unstoppable.

For several seconds, they both stared into each other's eyes, neither making a move or saying a word. The victor and the vanquished, their earlier battle forgotten.

"Boss, I –"

He was silenced abruptly as she pressed her lips against his, kissing him with a fierce, almost painful need. Grabbing his wrists, she exerted her strength to pin them against the mat behind his head, while at the same time sliding lower down his body until he could feel her pressing against his groin. His reaction was as instinctive as it was immediate. He couldn't have hidden it if he'd wanted to.

Finally breaking away, she looked down at him for a long moment, her pale blue eyes shimmering in the bright light. She looked at him in a way she never had before. Not as a soldier, not as a friend or a comrade, but as a lover.

"No words, Jack," she whispered, her voice low and husky. "No words."

Her grip was still tight on his wrists, her strength and weight perhaps enough to keep him pinned even if he'd tried to resist. He didn't.

Neither did he try to stop her as she bent down to kiss him again.

OOOOO

Jack awoke to the sound of music. Old music, bittersweet and melancholy, and almost unfamiliar to him. But it stirred within him memories of a different time, of a different world. A world of child-like innocence, of mingled hope and tragedy and misbegotten heroism that had belonged to a different generation.

A world that was now gone forever.

_"Let's say goodbye with a smile, dear. Just for a while, dear, we must part…"_

It was cold. A window was open somewhere in the apartment – he could feel a draft sighing gently through the room, stirring the curtains and raising goosebumps on his exposed skin. The night air carried with it the scent of freshly cut grass, wet tarmac and to his surprise, the rich tang of cigar smoke.

They had made love again after returning to her apartment. Slower this time, less frantic, less desperate, but no less passionate. He'd never thought to question it at the time. It had seemed so natural, so easy, there hadn't been any discussion between them. They had just done it, as if they were of one mind and one intent.

Just thinking about her now, the feel of her smooth skin against his, the sound of her breathing, the smell of her hair, the absolute abandon with which she gave herself to him, was enough to rouse him again.

He rolled over and stretched out his arm, seeking the warmth of the Boss' body.

She wasn't there.

He opened his eyes then, glancing around the darkened room. Cast in pale moonlight and deep shadow, the place seemed strangely threatening and brooding without his mentor, and he felt a brief moment of apprehension at finding himself alone.

_"Don't let this parting upset you. I'll not forget you, sweetheart…" _

Pulling the sheets aside, he rose from the bed and silently crossed the room, easing the door open to peer out into the darkened hallway beyond. The music was louder now, coming from the living room.

_"Keep smiling through, just like you always do…"_

He found her reclining on a chair by the open window, her long naked legs stretched out and resting on the sill. A slender cigar was balanced gracefully in her right hand, wisps of smoke rising into the cool air before dissipating in the breeze.

He didn't know she smoked. He'd never seen her do it before.

Clad only in his loosely buttoned shirt, with her eyes closed and her blonde hair falling about her face in disarray, she looked uncharacteristically peaceful and relaxed as she allowed the music to wash over her. He'd never seen her like this before, had never seen her drop her guard.

For several seconds Jack said and did nothing, just stood there watching her, feeling oddly privileged to have witnessed the normally stern and focussed woman in such a personal, intimate moment. Not for the first time he caught himself wondering at the soul that lurked behind her intimidating façade, at the unknown triumphs and tragedies that had shaped her into the person she had become.

He knew almost nothing of the woman now called The Boss; nothing beyond hearsay and rumour, though even that was fantastical enough. She was a hero from the dark days of the Second World War, when such heroes were desperately needed. Her reputation had blossomed in the years since that bitter conflict, propaganda elevating her to the status of a living legend.

And yet, even legends were only human in the end. In all the time he'd worked with her, trained with her, fought with her, she'd barely spoken of herself.

He hadn't pressed her, hadn't tried to dig beneath the surface. Trying to make The Boss do anything against her will was an exercise in futility, and if he was honest with himself, he was almost afraid of what she might tell him; afraid of what vulnerabilities and flaws and secrets she might reveal.

Who they were before they found each other was almost inconsequential. All that mattered was who they were here, now, in this moment. They were soldiers – they lived from one day to the next, one mission to another.

_"Till the blue skies drive the dark clouds far away…"_

Raising the cigar to her lips, she took a long, slow draw, her chest rising beneath the thin material of the shirt. He could see soft curves of her breasts, the nipples standing out hard and erect in the cool night air, and felt a twinge of arousal at the sight.

Such a strange dichotomy, he thought . That inexplicable contrast of firm unyielding strength and tender vulnerability combined in one body. A woman, created to bring forth life, who had made a career out of taking it.

Exhaling, she allowed her head to rest against the back of the chair. "You can come closer, Jack," she said quietly, opening her eyes to look at him. "Don't be afraid."

He wasn't afraid of her. He trusted her with his life, just as he had done countless times already.

Jack crossed the room, feeling no need to cover himself as he approached. Living and fighting together as they had over the years, they had both long since discarded any inhibitions they might once have felt about being seen undressed.

He eased himself into a chair opposite her and gestured to the record player nearby, the scratched old vinyl disc still turning on it.

"Never knew you liked this old stuff," he remarked. Indeed, he couldn't recall her expressing any opinions or even interest in pop culture. Music, movies, fashion… none of it seemed to mean much to her. She had other things on her mind.

He saw a smile, faint and bittersweet as the music. "It helps me remember."

"Remember what?"

"Absent friends." Reaching for a glass on the window sill, she raised it to her lips and took a drink. Jack could smell the distinctive, powerful odour of vodka.

_"We'll meet again. Don't know where, don't know when. But I know we'll meet again some sunny day…"_

She laid the glass down again, and for a moment her eyes held a look of such longing, such deep rooted sadness and grief that even he felt moved by it. Had she been any other woman he would have reached out to her, tried to comfort and console her, but he made no effort to do so now.

The Boss was of another sort. She neither wanted nor needed his strength; she had plenty of her own.

"You know something?" she went on, speaking in a slow, thoughtful manner, her voice devoid of its usual intensity. "After the war ended and my unit disbanded, I told myself I had five or six good years left in me as a soldier." She chuckled then; a grim expression of both disappointment and amusement at the way things had changed. "That was twelve years, and fifty-six missions ago. And I'm still here, still doing what I always do. Funny the way things work out, huh?"

Jack didn't know what to say to that. The Boss was a few years older than himself, true, but she was without a doubt the most powerful and capable soldier he'd ever known. Possessing seemingly limitless stamina, resourcefulness and experience, she had always seemed invulnerable, invincible to him.

But not at that moment. Sitting so close, watching her almost naked body glimmering in the moonlight, he could see for himself the toll that two decades of fighting had taken on her. He saw the scars that criss-crossed her skin; old injuries from old battles.

More than that, staring into her cool blue-grey eyes, he saw the toll it had taken on her psyche. He caught a glimpse of the weariness that now weighed on her spirit, the grief for comrades fallen, the regrets of mistakes made and opportunities missed. The sorrow of love lost.

She took another draw of the cigar, having made no move to offer him a drink or a smoke. This was her moment, not his. She had permitted him to witness it, but not to intrude on it.

He wasn't about to argue with her.

"After I'm dead and gone from this world… what do you suppose they'll say about me?" she asked then, staring right at him.

Her words, the thought of a world and a life without her, felt like a knife driven into his guts. "Boss, don't talk like that…"

"What will they say, Jack?" she repeated, a harder edge in her voice now. An undertone of command, of authority that she was so used to wielding. "Tell me."

Jack raised his chin a little, unaccountably feeling as if he were a raw recruit on a parade ground. "They'll say… you were a hero. A great patriot, and a great soldier."

"A great soldier," she repeated, though there was a bitter undertone to it. "When I first enlisted, that was all I ever dreamed of being. A soldier, a warrior – feared, respected, honoured." She shook her head. "Things were different back then. I was different, the world was different."

"And now?" he couldn't help asking.

"Now things are… complicated. We don't fight wars any more, we don't liberate or conquer. We 'maintain the balance of power'." She sighed and took another sip of vodka, staring pensively into the glass. "Kind of makes you wonder, doesn't it? Where the power really lies."

He didn't understand what she was referring to. Where else would power lie except in governments, in the leaders of this world? He wasn't about to pretend that the Cold War they were both part of was a perfect way of running the world, but it had kept East and West from coming to blows. For now at least.

"You never asked me why," she prompted.

He frowned. "Why?"

"Why I did it," she explained. "Why a woman would choose to fight a war, even though everything and everyone was against it."

He shrugged. "I figured you'd tell me, when you were ready."

She smiled, though it was an almost sympathetic smile, as if he were a child speaking on an adult subject with the innocence of youth.

"My mother died when I was very young," she explained. "I don't remember much about her except… moments, feelings, like the flash of a camera bulb on the back of your eye. My father was the one who raised me. It was always just me and him. He brought me up, in his own way…but not like the other little girls. I was different, he said. I was meant for something more." She paused, looking at the cigar in her hand. "I think he'd always wished for a son. But instead he ended up with me."

There was no bitterness in her voice as she said this, no resentment or anger. Just a kind of sad acceptance of something she'd long since come to terms with.

"I went everywhere with him, you see; meetings, conferences, learning what he did and the people he worked with. Wise men, powerful men with their expensive suits, their cigars, the chains of their pocket watches glinting in the light. Strange the things you remember, isn't it?"

She cocked her head and frowned, as if intrigued by the depth of her own memory. "The thing is, you were always made to feel so… small around men like that. Weak, timid, afraid."

Jack said nothing. He sat there, listening to every word. She had never spoken this much about herself in the whole time he'd known her.

"My father; he made me fight against that. Not against the men, but against myself. Against the smallness, the weakness, the fear. The part of yourself that holds you back, that makes you doubt and question. He even made me fight against him. Fight to be heard, to be respected, to be listened to. Again and again, until finally I won, until I let go of my fear. That was when I was ready to be a soldier, to win glory on the battlefield, to become the person my father always wanted me to be. That was when I believed nothing could stand in my way, not even the men in their expensive suits."

She smiled again, but it was a sad, wistful smile. "We had such a chance, Jack. When the war ended, when East and West stood together. For one perfect moment it all seemed to be falling into place, and I even thought I might get to play my part in it – not as a soldier, but as a peace maker. I felt like I could see it all laid out before me, and all I had to do was reach out and take it. That was when I realised the truth."

"What was that?" he asked, leaning forward expectantly.

"The men in the suits, Jack. In the end, they were the small ones, the frightened ones, the weak ones. For all their power and their money and their influence, they'd never managed to win that last battle over themselves. And in their jealousy and their paranoia, they turned on each other. They broke the world apart, separated East and West, fostered the same fear and weakness and hatred that they felt for themselves."

Taking a match from the pack on the table beside her, she lit one, the flame reflecting in her pale blue eyes as it slowly burned down.

"Our chance came, and then, even as I was reaching out to take it…" Inhaling, she blew the match out with a single breath. "It was gone."

She looked at him, emerging from her reverie. "You think I'm a hero? I'm not. In the end I couldn't make my voice heard; not by the people who mattered. That's the joke, the punchline on my life. After all the fighting, all the sacrifices and loss, I was still that little girl in a room full of big men. And I would never, ever get that chance again." With that, she drained the last of her vodka and laid down the glass. "Funny how things work out, isn't it?"

Jack said nothing for some time. He was dumbfounded by what he'd heard, stunned into silence. Never had he imagined the depth of the losses she had experience in her life.

"I've known you a long time, Boss," he said at last, feeling the need to fill the silence. "You've never spoken like this before. Why now?"

Swinging her legs down from the sill, she rose from her chair to stand by the window, staring out across the city.

"I'm your commander, Jack. Your mentor, your friend. I've tried to teach you everything I know, give you everything you need to take care of yourself. I wanted to be sure that when I left you, you could look after yourself, that you could do more than just survive. I wanted to know you could live." She paused, and he heard a faint sigh as she carried on staring out the window, keeping her back to him. "Tell me I didn't let you down, Jack."

Then at last it hit him. The terrible truth, tacitly acknowledged but consciously denied, was finally revealed to him.

"You're leaving," he said, his voice strained as his throat tightened.

She said nothing. But he saw her nod affirmation.

Jack winced inwardly. That single curt nod had hit him harder than any physical blow. She was leaving him. The only woman, the only human being he had ever felt close to, who had ever truly understood him, and she was leaving.

"When?" he managed to ask.

"Tomorrow. Don't ask where I'm going – you know I can't tell you. But I'm leaving, and I won't be coming back. This is where we part ways, Jack."

And just like that, it all seemed to fall into place.

"That was why you were so hard on me when we were sparring today, right?"

"I wanted to test you, see if you were ready," she admitted. "I'm sorry, but I had to know."

"And what about tonight?"

She sighed and turned slowly to face him, the look in her eyes one of overwhelming sadness and loss. Reaching out, she took his hand and placed it against her chest. Through the fabric of the shirt and the softness of her breast, he could feel the strong, steady beating of her heart.

"This belongs to you, Jack. It always will," she whispered. "No matter what happens, never forget that."

His heart ached for her in that moment. He ached to tell her everything he'd ever felt for her, to find a way to express the respect, admiration, kinship and overwhelming love that she stirred in him. But he couldn't. He didn't have the words.

"Don't go," he said, blurting it out before he could stop himself. "Boss, don't go. Please."

"I have to."

"You have a choice. There's always a choice. I'm asking you, don't leave." He shook his head, struggling with himself, struggling to keep his composure. "I… I don't want to go on without you."

The Boss, normally so authoritative and intimidating, now looked on the verge of tears. It was several moments before she could summon the self-control to speak again.

"You know something?" she said at last. "If it wasn't for you, I probably wouldn't even be alive today. Little by little, I've lost everything that meant something to me. But you… Watching you grow and become the man you are today, it's given me a reason to keep going all these years." She raised her chin a little, a hint of respect now showing in her eyes. "I've stayed with you as long as I could, tried to teach you not to make the same mistakes I did, but I can't follow you any longer. It's time for me to let you go, to let you find your own way, and I know you will. You're my son, and I'm proud… very proud of you."

And there it was. He'd known it was futile to ask, that her mind had been made up long before today and it was a waste of time trying to change it, but he'd had to try. He couldn't let her go without trying.

"Will I ever see you again?"

That last question came out almost as a plaintive whimper. A child about to be separated from his mother.

She could take no more. At this, the Boss simply reached out, threw her arms around him and pulled him close, holding him in silent, almost desperate embrace. She said nothing, but Jack could feel the warmth of her tears on his shoulder.

She had no words for him, just as he had none left for her. Instead they just stood there by the window, holding each other as the night breeze sighed past them, and the scratched old vinyl record continued to play.

_"We'll meet again. Don't know where, don't know when. But I know we'll meet again some sunny day…" _

And on that cheerful note, we'll fade to black. Sorry about the clichéd choice of music, but after scouring YouTube for old-timey songs for at least 10 minutes, I've come to the conclusion that WW2 music sucks.

I've tried to stick to the canon as much as possible here. It was never really explained whether Snake had seen the scar on the Boss' abdomen, but I gave her his shirt to wear for this scene to totally skirt around the problem.

Hope you enjoyed, and do feel free to leave a review!

Cool beans.


End file.
